


The Hanging Man

by SilverMiko



Series: Sight Unseen [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Hospital, Overdose, Sherlolly - Freeform, slow-burn, special guest star: mycroft's umbrella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: Molly Hooper is a first year Foundation doctor, tired after a long shift in the emergency room. An other wise quiet night is interrupted as she meets Sherlock Holmes again, in less than better circumstances, on a day that will forever be etched as "that day" to Mycroft Holmes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Sight Unseen collection. Referential to a scene in "The Abominable Bride."

“We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day…….there will always be a list.”

 

London, England  
St. Bart’s Hospital  
2004

 

On days like these, with her scrubs covered in blood, bile, and God know’s what else, Molly Hooper spent a moment questioning, yet again, if medicine was for her. And then she remembered the people she helped and of course, of course it was the right call. She hadn’t busted her butt to get through medical school in three years for nothing. But she’d been more on-duty for the past thirty-six hours than off during her A&E rotation, and the long hours were taking her toll. She gave a fleeting, brief thought to kipping of in the lounge, but that idea was a lost cause when her current mentor, Dr. Stamford, rounded the corner.  
“Ah Molly! Just who I was looking for!”  
He shuffled over to her with a stack of charts in hand and she knew what he was about to ask, the same thing he always asked when he had that more-than-pleasant look on.  
“Yes, Dr. Stamford?”  
“Could you be a dear and help with some of these chart notes? It’ll give you more of a chance to practice the illegible scribble that’ll really make you a doctor. Or, were you busy?”  
Goodbye, short kip, you were a beautiful thought.  
She put on a smile and held her arms out.  
“No, not at all. It’s been quiet so I’ll just crack on with these then.”  
Right as Dr. Stamford handed her the charts, the doors burst open and a short gang of men in dark suits marched in as a pair of EMTs behind them wheeled in a patient on a stretcher. Being that it was nothing out of the ordinary when one worked in a hospital, Molly paid it no heed at first until one of the men approached her.  
“Dr. Hooper?”  
She blinked up, confused.  
“Yes?”  
“Come with me.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“Miss, please, it’s a matter of urgency.”  
“I’m sorry but I’ll need a bit more detail than that?”  
She was so confused; this was clearly not a doctor or medical personnel, what could anyone want with her?  
“Miss Hooper,” another voice called out, and she looked over the tall, suited man’s shoulder to see the familiar, umbrella-wielding form of Mycroft Holmes, “Please, if you will.”  
If he was here, it was something serious and likely secretive, and she had the particular feeling it was no coincidence him arriving at her hospital. But why would a “minor” government official be requesting her assistance? Unless…  
She shoved the charts ungracefully back at Dr. Stamford with a quick apology and walked at a fast clip alongside Mycroft as they headed for a room, following the stretcher which, now that she was paying attention, carried someone with a very familiar head of dark curls.  
Oh God, oh God, oh God…  
Her thoughts raced, her heart leaping. Whatever this was, it was bad.  
As the EMTs helped lift the unconscious body of Sherlock Holmes onto bed, they were quickly ushered out by the suited men so that only Mycroft and Molly remained.  
“Mr. Holmes, what happened to him?” she asked, frantically, as she took out the small pen light in her pocket and carefully lifted each eyelid to examine. There was some response, good; brain activity wasn’t majorly impacted yet by whatever this was. She checked his pulse, and breathing, which were not as hopeful. “And should I really be doing this? I’m only a Foundation doctor.”  
“Miss Hooper, this matter requires the utmost discretion and care, emphasis on care. Please, do what you can.”  
Mycroft had been utterly cool and collection the first time she’d met him, on that car ride to the hospital years ago, but now it seemed his iciness had cracked a bit. She wondered if this was panic to a Holmes.  
“Alright, but I need to know what I’m dealing with. Is it heroin?”  
“How did you…”  
“Sherlock once suggested, well, recommended a seven percent solution to me back in school. I know he uses. I had hoped he’d stop.”  
“As had I but whatever it was had to be more than he’s used to.”  
Molly began attached monitors to Sherlock, working as she tried to explain more of his vitals.  
“I’ll really need at least one nurse, Mr. Holmes, or another doctor here…” she was trying so hard to not stutter frantically but this wasn’t just some random on her table, it was Sherlock. Brilliant, overtly keen, stupid stupid Sherlock Holmes who should have been smarter than this.  
Before Mycroft could reply, the monitors beeped furiously.  
“He’s going in cardiac arrest, please Mr. Holmes, at least get Dr. Stamford!”  
Mycroft nodded, his face losing color, as he left the room while Molly prepped the defibrillator, placing the paddles on Sherlock’s bare chest that peeked through the filthy blue button down the paramedics must have ripped open on the way there. Someone really ought to be there to pump oxygen into his system. All she could do was alternate between CPR and defib, her lips pressing against his pale ones and breathing into his mouth. It was nothing romantic, the most clinical of motions. Moments later she got his heart to start again, vitals out of the danger zone. Another moment later, Mycroft returned with Dr. Stamford who rushed in and checked on Molly’s work.  
“I got him stabilized, as best as I could for now. Need to get labs done, know what we’re dealing with.”  
Breathe, she ordered herself, breathe.  
She was Molly Hooper, first year Foundation doctor at St. Bart’s Hospital, and she was going to make sure Sherlock Holmes walked away from this with his beautiful brain intact, or exhaust every option trying.  
He was so pale, his skin so clammy. Even when he’d turn up high at school he never looked so worse for wear.  
“Sherlock Holmes, what has the world done to you?” she whispered softly, her hand smoothing over his forehead.  
Three hours later, after getting him more stabilized and running tests and coming to some conclusions about what he took, Molly sat on the curb near the wall outside the A&E entrance trying to catch a breath. Some air, anything. All that was likely in his system, God, the thought it all made her want to vomit. That he was even alive was a basic miracle. She shivered slightly, rubbing her arms. She hadn’t grabbed a coat and only wore her pale green scrubs, it was 1am, and April. Cold, for sure, but she only half-felt it.  
Footsteps shuffled up next to her, and she looked up to see Mycroft Holmes light up a cigarette, then grab another out of a fancy case and offer it to her.  
She shook her head, and realized it wasn’t the only part of her shaking.  
“Yes yes, I know they’re bad for you but I’d say you need to take the edge off, after all that.”  
Molly sighed and stood up, taking the offered cigarette as he lit it for her. She’d only ever smoked twice before, finding no appeal in the habit. She wasn’t even sure why she was partaking now other than it beat holding her hand over an open bunsen burner to try and control the complete mess of her feelings. At least he hadn’t seen her crying, but she suspected he’d already figured out she had been.  
“Why would he do that? I don’t understand.”  
“The curse of a mind like his is that Sherlock is also easily bored. If he has nothing to keep him stimulated, he falls into his more unsavory patterns as distractions. I’ve...seen worse, but I’ve made sure to try and keep him too far from the dark path. He’s as directionless as he is brilliant, as dangerous a combination for an addict.”  
She frowned, closing her eyes. What must it be like for one second in Sherlock Holmes’ brain? She envied his skills once, but now she wondered if she were the lucky one after all. It was tragic, really, and it surprised her at how much it was breaking her heart.  
“I never thought I’d see him again, honestly. Figured he’d go off and at least do something with his deduction skills. I told him he should try police work or something like that instead of..” she made a wordless gesture. Instead of losing himself to drugs. She sniffled. No, she would not cry again and certainly not in front of Mycroft Holmes.  
“I’m sorry the circumstances of your reunion were such, Miss Hooper, but if it’s any consolation you have fine medical skills for just a Foundation doctor.”  
“Yes well, this would have been easier had he just made a bloody list, just in case.”  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, taking a long drag.  
“Indeed.”  
“What now?” she asked, because at least for now they could pretend there was something to thinking ahead for Sherlock’s future, or at least, next few weeks.  
“Exile, rehab, all the same really in the end. He went too far and I cannot have next be the time I find him...well you know how it is with these things.”  
She understood.  
“He’ll hate it you know. He never seemed to like that you made him go to school in Scotland. I think he likes it here,” she mused, taking a small puff. God, it was a vile habit. She tossed the cigarette down and crushed it out with her foot.  
“Not much choice in the matter. I’d given him every opportunity not to muck it up, more latitude than he deserved, really.”  
Molly stared at him for a moment.  
“He’s lucky to have a brother like you, Mr. Holmes.”  
Mycroft coughed for a moment, taken aback.  
“Miss Hooper, much like brother mine I am not the sentimental type so please, none of that. And it’s Mycroft. Mr. Holmes makes me think too much of my father.”  
“Sorry,” she said, quietly, but the question that was bothering her since the Holmes’ brothers had burst through the doors burned on her tongue, no longer willing to be silent.  
“Why me? It’s no coincidence you brought him here. It seemed pretty obvious you were specifically bringing him to me. I’m not even a specialist registrar yet. Why would you trust a junior doctor to care for Sherlock?”  
“Because that’s exactly the part that mattered, you care and I’ve been informed your trustworthy. And besides, I’ve been keeping tabs on you, Miss Hooper. You have a promising career ahead of you at the rate you’re going.”  
“You’ve been checking up on me?” she sputtered, finding it ludicrous that anyone as important as him would.  
“I make it point to keep files on all my brother’s known associates, especially ones he’s willing to make uncharacteristic concessions for.”  
“But we barely knew each other, really just one year at uni and I haven’t heard from him in four years. I’m really not that special.”  
“And yet, I doubt any doctor in there would have fought harder for him than you have tonight.”  
In that moment, Molly realized that heightened skills of perceptive were not a trait solely belonging to Sherlock. She looked away, and they stood for a long pause in silence. This was not how she ever thought she’d run into Sherlock again, never expected to really, though admittedly she did think of him every now and then. She could have emailed, but she never did. Something always held her back. Nerves? Maybe it just never felt like the right time, or that he’d even remember her. Very possibly, he had deleted her from his mind or she had existed a some hazy amalgamation of students named Marcia or something. After the way she left things, with that goodbye kiss outside a pub so far away in time and space, she had told herself that was the best ending to that chapter of her life. That better to know for that brief time they were what they were, whatever it was.  
“May I ask a favor? Don’t tell him about me, if it’s all the same to you. Let Dr. Stamford take the credit.”  
“You don’t want to say hello when he wakes up?”  
She shook her head.  
“Oh, he probably barely remembers me at all, you know how it is. Less awkward this way, and I really should be going home. Going on forty hours now with little sleep. Been a busy week and all.”  
“If you insist,” Mycroft replied in a manner that Molly was sure meant he found her request silly. Maybe it was silly, but she was growing too tired to care. If Mycroft went through with sending him away, at least Molly could hold onto that lovely graduation night as the time they parted ways; two people with brighter futures looming ahead, not a worn out junior doctor and a seemingly hopeless drug addict about to be forced away from home, yet again.  
Suddenly, something crossed her mind. She remembered the New Scotland Yard Sergeant who had been in earlier in the week, who she saw often from working in the morgue.  
“What if there was something else to preoccupy him? If he found a better use of him time, and his talents, would you let him stay?”  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
“I’m listening.”

 

***

Sherlock’s mind became aware before his other senses. Beeping, his heartbeat. No, his heartbeat monitored through a machine. IVs in his arms. The light against his eyelids was bright, too bright. Hospital.  
“Welcome back to the land of the living, brother mine.”  
His eyes opened, and his head shifted a fraction to see Mycroft standing over him.  
“What…” his voice was a croak, raspy. Intubator?  
He tried to focus his mind on the last thing he could remember, the dim alley, a dingy room with moldy mattresses.  
Fuck.  
“It appears I’ve spoiled your plan to dig yourself an early grave. So sorry.” Mycroft said, his voice biting sharply on the last two words. “I didn’t think you could be so foolish, such a child, but you yet again defy my expectations. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I almost called Mummy, for Christ’s sake.”  
It had been serious, then.  
Sherlock laid his head back, exhaling deeply. He ached, profusely. How was he alive? It hadn’t been his intent to kill himself. He had slipped up, gone too far. The soul-crushing ennui he’d felt the past few months had been too much, and somehow he’d slip up. Assuredly, Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it.  
“How long?” he croaked out.  
“Fourteen hours. You’re lucky I found you when I did. Technically, you died, brother mine. And now you have a choice.”  
Sherlock groaned. He never cared much for Mycroft’s choices.  
“What is it now?”  
“Employment or exile.”  
“9-5? Might as well have let me die, then.”  
“This is NOT a joke, Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled, then pressing his lips in a thin line as he composed himself. “Either you get sent away to Switzerland this time, or you make use of that supposed intelligence of yours for some good to keep to you busy.”  
Mycroft dug into jacket pocket, pulling out a business card.  
“There’s a Scotland Yard Sergeant named LeStrade. Apparently they’ve been in the middle of case proving to be a tough nut to crack. If you bothered to get yourself fine form I’m sure you’d figure it out about four seconds after I could.”  
“Nope!” Sherlock said, popping the “p”. He knew Mycroft was goading him into making a decision. Work with the police? It seemed utterly mental. They were a sorry lot, unable to discern the most obvious of clues even if they shouted at them in the face. Solve crime, how ridiculous!  
And yet, something tugged at his memory. Someone had suggested that before, hadn’t they?  
“So exile then? Shall I start packing for you?”  
Sherlock said nothing.  
“Perhaps you need more time to ponder your options because believe me, it is one or the other. You’ve abused my generosity too long now.”  
“Generosity?” Sherlock snorted. He was thirsty, he realized, his mouth feeling like it was full of cotton.  
“I’ll expect an answer tomorrow. For now, Dr. Stamford tells me you should rest. Unless you did want me to call our parents?”  
Sherlock scowled in reply. He shuffled back in his pillows, feeling rather sulky. What did it take to get some peace and quiet after an overdose?  
It was then, he smelled it. Perfume, light and floral, slightly citrusy. Happy.  
“Hooper.”  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
“Come again?”  
“I’m at St. Bart’s. She was here, her perfume, I smell it.”  
“I haven’t the faintest idea of who you’re talking about. Rest now, brother mine, you have a decision to make.”  
And with that, Mycroft walked out of the room. As he made his way down the hallway, he pulled out his phone, dialing his personal assistant.  
For a girl who thought herself of little consequence to his brother, Miss Hooper seemed unusually important to Sherlock if after years of never encountering her since school, he recognized her perfume straight away and knew exactly where he was by that recognition. Let alone, remembering her name.  
What was it about this girl that his brother hadn’t deleted her?  
Two rings in, his assistant picked up and answered.  
“It’s me. I have a file that needs updating to ‘special interest.’ Hooper, Molly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I hadn't conceived this particular story to be part of "Sight Unseen". The plan was to jump ahead to show where they started as consulting detective and pathologist, in the beginning of that facet of their relationship, and where we see poor Molly start to chatter idly more and be the Molly we knew in Series 1/2 around Sherlock.  
> But then, as I re-watched "The Abominable Bride" again and the scene where Mycroft reveals Sherlock is high and asks for the list and we see the flashback, the inspiration came to me. What if "that day" Mycroft took Sherlock to a doctor he knew they could trust? It's been pretty implied in the series that Mycroft is often covering up Sherlock's drug use to the public and likely to their parents, so to me it made sense that it could work to position Mycroft taking Sherlock to St. Bart's, to the junior doctor who Sherlock uncharacteristically helped years ago get to her father's bedside. Mycroft would have surely been keeping tabs on Molly since then. And I figured, maybe her making a flippant comment about how a list would have helped would inspire Mycroft to demand this of Sherlock, sadly know this wouldn't be the last time. And to really go big or go home on Molly secretly setting all this stuff in motion whether she knows it or not (she really did make it all possible!), I felt it didn't seem unlikely she would have crossed paths with LeStrade through the morgue, or use that connection to somehow get Sherlock and LeStrade working together. This seemed like an interest way to make it happen.  
> AND! I didn't forget that Sherlock was interested in solving crime since he was a kid. I'm getting to that in the next story and why he seemed to just be now considering it. It'll tie together and was toooootttttallly not a mental oversight on my part. Not at all.


End file.
